


It's Like You're My Mirror

by ester_potter



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coming Out, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Temporarily Unrequited Love, less angst then usual really, no beta we die like men, only in the first scene though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ester_potter/pseuds/ester_potter
Summary: 5 times Martín almost confessed his feelings to Andrés + one time he did + a happy ending, since I deliberately decided to ignore canon (my sanity is on the line)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	It's Like You're My Mirror

_“I don’t have much money, but boy if I did  
I’d buy a big house where we both could live  
If I was a sculptor, but then again, no […]  
I know it’s not much but it’s the best I can do  
My gift is my song and this one’s for you”_  
  
  
\- Elton John   
  
  
  
  
  
  


I.  
  
  
Martín walks furiously down the empty street, his hands in his pockets; he can only hear noises of broken glass and drunk kids laughing from afar. He kicks everything that gets in his way, while the icy wind blows through his hair and stings his eyes until they almost water - or maybe it’s just the anger, or the adrenaline going down. The shame, perhaps.  
-Martín! – He’s being called for the second time from down the alley and the voice is closer now.  
-Martín!  
-Go home! – he screams, walking faster.  
Someone’s running and panting behind him, then a hand grabs his shoulder and makes him turn around: as he had predicted, Andrés' hassled and bewildered look is enough for the guilt to eat him alive. They have known each other for less than a year, have only worked together once, and even though they can’t clearly state to be 'friends' yet, Martín has no control over the effect Andrés has on him, and he feels uncovered. He can't stand it. At first he thought it was just a crush, but as he got to know him better with time he started to fear it was more than that, and he just couldn’t go through with his attempts to get over him.  
-What the fuck has gotten into you? - Andrés snaps at him. - Why did you do that? Don’t you know who those guys are?  
Martín clenches his fists. - I don’t give a shit who they are – he retorts. – I didn't look for them. _You_ looked for them.  
-Of course I looked for them, you idiot. We’re supposed to plan a heist together, or did you forget about that?  
Martín hasn't forgotten at all. On the contrary: during dinner he had done nothing but repeat to himself "Calm down. They’re not talking to you. Mind your own fucking business and chill out. You're here for the job." He had tried to resist, he had tried with all his heart... but then he realized that he no longer felt like a man but rather a cornered child, and he went back to feel those unpleasant sensations that hadn't showed up in years, those he had compelled himself to lock up in the innermost corners of his memory, convinced he had forgotten them forever.  
  
  
_-Where the hell is the waiter?_  
_-He's over there. Shall I call him again?_  
_-What's he doing?_  
_Shortly before, the waiter had apologized to go and greet a young man who had entered the restaurant; they were talking and smiling like two drunkards, not worrying about leaving any personal space between them. The table where Martín's, Andrés and the others of the group were seated was too far away for them to hear, but Martín recognized the look in the waiter's eyes perfectly. Once it was time to say goodbye, the boy caressed his cheek and whispered: "See you later"._  
_-Hey, faggot - shouted the man sitting at Martín’s right. - Take your time, don’t worry about us!_  
_The waiter stood frozen on the spot, his cheeks red with shame. His boyfriend glared at them with clenched fists and took one step towards their table, before the waiter held him back._  
_-Yeah, bring it on - continued the man. - You got a problem, fag?_  
_-Adrian, keep your voice down – hissed another guy from the gang, although he didn’t sound so convinced. - They'll kick us out. If you want to have fun at least wait till we finish eating._  
_This seemed to calm Adrian, who tried to focus on his food, stabbing the salad with his fork angrily. Martín managed to not utter a single word and drowned all his discomfort in wine in one sip. To his left, Andrés continued to eat without losing his balance, just letting a scolding glance slip towards the others._  
_-It's unbelievable - another one snorted. – The’re everywhere._  
_-There are families here! - added a third one, loud enough to be heard by the whole room, with an eloquent look at the two young men._  
_Meanwhile, the waiter had literally pushed his boyfriend out of the restaurant; he walked back to their table and filled their glasses, unable to look anyone in the eye. Although he did his best to hide it, Martin noticed that his hands were shaking._  
_When he got to Adrian's glass, the latter turned to the waiter with fake politeness: - You’re new, aren't you? I come here pretty often, but I've never seen you before._  
_The boy didn't answer and turned around as soon as he finished his task, but before he had the chance to move Adrian jerked forward and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him down just a few inches from his face. The waiter tensed up and kept his eyes closed, perhaps expecting to be hit. Adrian gave him a menacing look and whispered: - You know, people like you should be careful how they live their private lives. You queers tend to forget that we're not all like you. Some things you do at home. Is that clear? – He didn’t get an answer. – You should be grateful you're allowed to walk among normal people and have a life, don't you think?_  
_Martín held his glass tight. "Say something!" he thought. "Tell him to go fuck himself. Defend yourself."_  
_The waiter swallowed noisily and nodded: he was trembling from head to toe and when Adrian let him go he almost ran toward the kitchen._  
_The whole table bursted out laughing except for Andrés, who forced a smile and kept ignoring them - it was obvious that all that drama bored him and he couldn't wait to get back to talking about work. Martín, on the other hand, remained deadly serious and never looked up from his food again, even though he wasn’t eating anything anymore. He couldn’t. Not when he was forced to hear the comments that followed._  
_-Did you see him? He basically ran away in tears!_  
_-I can almost hear him crying with his little boyfriend – His voice changed into a ridiculous imitation of a feminine one. - "He called me a faggot! In front of everyone! Just because I like taking it up the ass doesn't mean he has the right to judge me”_  
_Almost everyone in the room was looking at them now, but they didn’t stop._  
_-Anyway, you did the right thing, Adrian. It won’t hurt them to be reminded of their place, every now and then._  
_-Damn right I did! You give these people an ich and they’ll take a mile, I’m telling you._  
_-As long as they don’t take it where we know they would…_  
_More scornful laughters. Andrés grimaced with disgust and started drumming his fingers on the table; he had just decided to draw everyone's attention away from the subject when he noticed how white Martín’s knuckles were turning as he clutched his fork._  
_-Ehy, - continued Adrian, - why don't we hang around here tonight and wait for the little fucker to come out? We'll teach him a lesson._  
_-Im in. Fags are free to live together, get married and even adopt babies, for Christ's sake! What the fuck’s next?_  
_-I’ll tell you what’s next: people are gonna get married to their pets!_  
_-You know what? - Adrian's voice was low, and yet overpowered everyone else's voices. - I'd burn them all, those sick perverts._  
_-You can say that again._  
_-Every single one of them... burned._  
_It only took a second for Martín to connect the vision of the waiter lying on the floor, covered in blood and then set on fire by a pack of wolves like those sitting with him - with whom he was mingling, he thought with repugnance - to one of his many memories where his father called him a faggot and put out cigarette butts on his skin. He wasn't even 12 at the time._  
_Before he knew it, Martìn had stabbed Adrian's hand with his fork and elicited a wild scream from him; when he let go, the prongs stayed stuck in Adrian's flesh, and he Martìn snapped to his right and grabbed the hair at the nape of Adrian’s neck. He banged his head right on top of his glass, causing it to explode into a thousand pieces and flood the table with wine. Someone screamed from across the room, but Martín didn't even notice. He jumped up and kicked Adrian's chair away, so that he was the only one holding him up off the floor, his hair still tight in his hand. He gave him just the time to turn around and look at him: he had pieces of glass all over his face, blood gushing out of every scratch and he was so numb he couldn't speak._  
_Martín finished him off by punching his jaw with a fist. It all happened so fast that when Adrian touched the ground - and there he stayed, unconscious - Martín had already grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair and rushed out of the restaurant. The gang ran to take care of Adrian._  
  
  
-Look, - Andrés's voice brings him back to reality and it's so full of cold determination that it nails him to the ground, – you’re not supposed to like them. They're not our friends, they're just colleagues. One heist and then we drop them. What, you think I had fun? Unjustified cruelty is never fun. And don't get me wrong, normally I would have admired what you did, but not today. You screwed up, and you know it.  
-I'm not like you. I can't let it go.  
"I can't hide anymore, I'm _tired_ of hiding" he wants to scream.  
Andrés loses it. – Well, you should have! That wasn't our fucking problem!  
Martín shakes his head and tightens his lips. - Unbelievable - he whispers coldly. - I didn't know you were like this.  
-Like what?  
-You like talking but you never take a stand, do you? - He looks at him as if he disgusts him, although he really doesn't. He doesn't even hold him the slightest grudge. The only thing he feels is disappointment, which makes him even angrier at himself.  
On the other hand, his words seem to have destroyed Andrés’ impenetrable facade, and he can hardly keep his voice down as he brings his face closer to Martín's. - Don't you dare - he snarls. - If their target had been a family member or a friend of yours, I would have understood. In fact, I would have applauded while you fixed that asshole. But those guys were taking it out on a boy we don't even know, so what was the point? Was it a warning to all the homophobes in the world? No. Did you spare that kid the humiliation? No. Did it make _you_ feel better? Not from what I see.  
Martín glares at him but he can't keep the whole truth inside himself anymore, and he knows he's already lost when Andrés' last shot hits him: - Do you want to know the only thing you got? Nothing! We don't have a gang now, and we don't have a plan.  
-It could've been me! – Andrés is so taken aback by Martín’s outburst that he moves away from him. – It _has_ been me, in the past. More than once.  
He must stop there because he feels anger betraying him and slipping away, just like it came, and leave him vulnerable and hurt. He tries to pull himself together and lowers his eyes on the road, running a hand through his hair. – Look, I'm sorry. I really am. You know what? - He pulls out a couple hundred bills and he forces them in Andrés’ hand. – Here. Go back inside and pay for the dinner on my behalf. Tell them I’m sorry, that I'm a prick and I won't do the job with you – He realizes he can't look him in the eye now that he knows his secret, so he takes a couple of steps forward. – Good luck.  
Passing next to Andrés, he feels his hand press against his chest, hold him and push him backwards again in the exact spot where he stood before. He seems to have changed his expression: he’s intrigued, not the slightest trace of reproach in his gaze.  
-Everything’s clearer now – he says after a few seconds.  
Martín rolls his eyes and Andrés puts the money back in his hand; he steps back as if he wants to look at him better. - You did the right thing.  
-You don't mean it.  
-I do, now that I know the truth.  
-I thought you were less fickle.  
-Yeah, me too.  
Martín looks at him, confused, and eventually gives up with a sigh. He sits on the sidewalk, surrounding his knees with his arms and hiding his face. Andrés sits next to him. – There’s something you should know – he resumes, although Martín insists on not lifting his head. – You must learn to recognise the difference between honour and personal matters: honour comes before work, but personal matters don't. Don’t ever, _ever_ prioritize them over work. The same goes for feelings, it’s too dangerous. The job comes first, always remember that.  
If he had any sense at all, Martín would get up now and separate himself from Andrés forever: how can he even think of working with him with such feelings involved? His friend has just made it clear to him that he doesn't care he’s gay but he demands that business won't be compromised, and Martín can't bear the idea of being the cause of a heist gone wrong or a hypothetical arrest – or, even worse, a bullet against Andrés in case of a shooting. Despite all this, common sense simply can’t win over what he feels: he knows he will regret this in the future and yet he cannot think of separating their paths. He can only hope Andrés will do it someday.  
-Also, - the other continues, - next time, because I presume there will be a next time, do it more discreetly.  
-Discreetly? - Martín raises his head and arches an eyebrow.  
Andrés ignores his expression and nods solemnly. – That's right. Act classy. And maybe try to turn the tables to your advantage.  
-How am I supposed to do that?  
Andrés takes a wallet out of his pocket which Martín immediately recognizes as Adrian's .  
-How the hell...?  
-It fell out of his pocket when you knocked him out – Andrés shrugs and gives him one of his usual crooked smiles. – They were all distracted by him, I just took advantage of it. Learn, engineer.  
During the first days they had met – they had been recruited for the same heist – Andrés enjoyed using that nickname to address Martín, his manners always full of paternalism and mockery, to which Martín used to argue that he’d been stealing since he was five years old and he wouldn’t certainly need an arrogant dandy like him to teach him the job. Now, instead, Martín looks in the deep brown of Andrés' eyes, admiring that gleam of cunning that he has learned to recognise as his hallmark and he realises for the first time since he met him that he has a physical need to be closer to him.  
-Thank you – he just whispers. He can't remember the last time he thanked someone, and he would _love_ to add more, but he has never been so afraid of losing someone. – I... – It’s all he’s able to say out loud; he just sits there with his mouth half open like an idiot, desperately looking for something to say before Andrés laughs in his face. The latter must notice his awkwardness and comes to the rescue.  
-Let's go – he urges him as he gets up. – Before those apes come out and seek revenge – He gives him a hand and helps him to stand.  
-Aren’t you going back? - asks Martín with a hint of anxiety in his voice, just to be sure.  
-We don't need them – replies Andrés impassively, looking around for a taxi. – We'll manage on our own, right?  
Martín is dying to ask him why he's doing this, but he decides his answer is enough for now.  
-Let's go and spend good old Adrian's money on something fun.  
  
  
  
II.  
  
  
-So this is where you lived? – Andrés asks as he looks at what's left of the house where Martín has grown.  
The roof had collapsed on one side and the grass is so high it prevents him from having a full view of the front.  
-I know it sucks – Martín replies with a sleepy voice, just before yawning for the hundredth time in one day. Twelve hours of flight time is a long time, and jet lag is killing him. – There, you’ve seen it. Are you happy, now?  
-Are you?  
Martín doesn’t answer. He doesn't know what he feels either. He went back to Buenos Aires to sort out some bureaucratic business he had postponed as long as he could, and Andrés insisted on coming along with him and seeing his old house – or, as he likes to think, he wanted to follow him to not leave him alone digging up unpleasant memories.  
-Don't you want to go in?  
-No – Martín replies sharply. He feels Andrés' gaze on him, but he keeps looking ahead.  
They spend some time in silence, before Martín admits: - I’ve always hated my house.  
Andrés is about to tell him it's obvious, considering the traumas he associates it with, but one thing he has learned about Martín is that only he can decide wether and when to talk about certain things. This is new for Andrés, since he’s always been accustomed to satisfying his curiosity and so adept at manipulating people into telling him – and giving him – everything he wanted. It’s something that he hadn't considered, but strangely enough it doesn't bother him. In fact, it amuses him.  
-You've wanted to build houses since you were a kid? - he asks him.  
-I have – Martín smiles slightly. - I remember I used to spend the whole afternoon drawing floor plans and buildings. I was often alone, locked in my room. Six or seven hours went by, and I wouldn't get up from the chair. Actually, if there's one thing I should thank my parents for, it's this.  
-You mean they passed the passion on to you? - Andrés' voice overflows with skepticism and Martìn can’t blame him.  
His smile fades as he explains. – I didn't draw just floor plans at first. They were more like... hidden paths. Labyrinths. I used to draw the map of the house and add underground tunnels, secret passages... Anything that could lead to a hideout where they wouldn't find me.  
Andrés nods and squeezes his hand tight; it doesn’t last long, just enough for Martín to notice, then he lets go and shifts his gaze in front of him again. – I’m sorry – he says, absorbed. – No child should feel in danger at home.  
The warmth enveloping Martín at those words is a familiar feeling; he feels so safe that the words come out before he even realizes it: - I'll build us a house, once we pull off our next heist.  
Andrés turns to him, amused. – Wouldn’t it be faster if we just buy it, like we always do?  
-I know, but I feel like designing now.  
Andrés laughs whole-heartedly.  
-All right then – he grants. - But only if I get to choose the furniture.  
-I assumed you would say that.  
Martín looks him in the eye and his heart stops. For a fleeting moment, he thinks Andrés might know; the latter’s gaze is indecipherable, and his pupils run through every corner of his face like he’s actually reading him like a book. Martín has no doubts about his own feelings: it has been more than two years since they first met and he’s quite sure he’s mad about him.  
He soon learned not to deceive himself, since he knows Andrés’ not bisexual and not even remotely gay, but he has also given up trying to get over it; Andrés has basically adopted him, he changed his life, and what they have is enough for him – he suffers more than he wants to admit to himself, but it really is enough for him – and despite this, there are moments, like now, when he thinks he’s seeing something different in his friend's eyes, it seems to him like something’s trying to pull them closer together, like two magnets. Two reflections of the same soul.  
"Damn you, Andrés" he thinks. The thought of simply spitting it out and telling him the truth goes races through his mind, but less than a second later he starts having second thoughts about it. Truth is, he's never been as brave as he likes to seem.  
As always, it’s Andrés who breaks the spell: he gives him twisted smile and heads for the car they rented, straightening his hat. – Let's go.  
Martín takes a second to recover and watches him walk away.  
-And when the time comes, - Andrés adds without looking back, - pick a big plot of land, will you? I need a garden.  
Martín giggles, turns to give his childhood home one last look and follows him.  
  
  
  
III.  
  
  
-I told you not to move.  
-Aren’t you used to painting moving figures?  
-Just do your thing, I'll do mine.  
Martín snorts, pretending to be annoyed, and bows his head back on the desk.  
A little later, Andrés puts down his paint brush and walks over to Martín, kneeling in front of him. The other can’t help but stiffen and jerk back slightly. - What are you... - His best friend reaches out and takes his chin between his fingers.  
-Just a second.  
He holds his face up for a few seconds, then turns it to the side to admire his profile. The hand with which Martín holds the pencil starts to sweat, and he thinks about saying something stupid to release the tension, but he knows Andrés doesn't want to be disturbed when he paints, so he is silent. He simply allows himself to stare at him, since he finds himself in the rare circumstance that the other is doing the same with him.  
After what seems like an eternity, Andrés decides he’s satisfied and lets him go. Martín has a hard time trying not to push himself forward and follow his hand – he _misses_ his touch, wants it back– and attempts to get back to his calculations. Needless to say, he’s lost focus.  
-Done.  
Martín silently admires the portrait and for the first time he feels envy towards Andrés, which must notice his expression because he looks at him perplexed: - You don't like it?  
-Are you kidding? It's perfect.  
-What is it then?  
-Nothing, it's just that...  
"What you did is wonderful and I can't do anything. I can't do justice to your face, to your person. I don't know how to make you understand that I love you. I only know how to do math. There's nothing artistic or personal about it."  
-... I'm just sorry I won't be able to reciprocate.  
He says it smiling, but deep down he feels an inexplicable impulse to cry; he changes the subject as fast as he can, hoping Andrés won’t realize. – I’d better get back to work, if we're going to steal those diamonds - he points it out to him, clearing his voice.  
Andrés' gaze becomes attentive, ravenous. – I thought you weren't enthusiastic about that plan.  
-I changed my mind.  
-We're going to need a big gang, then.  
-And your brother's help.  
He’s just mentioned him and Andrés’ already smiling from ear to ear. The two brothers haven't seen each other in months, and Martín has always been tender about the way Andrés turns when he’s with his brother.  
-I'm going to call him – he announces as he dials the number. He’s just about to leave the room before he stops and turns towards Martín. – You don't have to reciprocate.  
-What?  
-The portrait is a gift. I did it because I felt like it. And you know it won't be the last time, right?  
Martín rolls his eyes like he’s annoyed, but he can’t help but smile. – As you wish.  
But Andrés knows him too well and something doesn’t feel right. – Do you have something to tell me?  
Martín opens his mouth and shuts it right away.  
"No fucking way," he thinks. “Shut up”  
-No. No, nothing. Go call your brother.  
Andrés lets the matter drop; Martín takes advantage of his absence to wash his brushes.  
  
  
  
IV.  
  
  
-Why are you marrying her?  
Andrés looks up from the money on the table and stares at Martín.  
-Come again?  
Martín keeps stacking rolls of bills in piles of like a robot, refusing to make eye contact. – Ana Maria. Why are you marrying her?  
Andrés is sincerely impressed and struggles to find an answer for a while – which is a one of a kind event, and Martín basks in satisfaction.  
-Why not? – he replies, as if he couldn't find anything better.  
Martín frowns. – What kind of answer is that?  
-You only live once. Plus, she's perfect. She’s beautiful, smart, funny...  
"Aren't they all?" Martín thinks, ignoring the endless list of qualities that a woman should have according to Andrés. He’s already heard it so many times he knows it by heart, so he doesn’t bother to listen to him.  
-By the way, has she landed yet?  
-Yes. She’s waiting for us in Copenhagen – Andrés wraps the last roll of bills in a rubber band and pulls out a duffel bag from under the table. – Hurry, or Marko* will start honking like crazy.  
Martín nods and imitates him, filling another bag.  
-You don’t like her, do you?  
-I don't even know her – Martín’s answer comes out more sharply than he thought. – _You_ don't even know her.  
-I know her well enough.  
-You used to say that about Carmen and Pilar too.  
Andrés stops the motions and puts his hands on the table, leaning slightly forward. – What's the matter?  
Martín shrugs, not raising his gaze.  
-I just think you could do better.  
Andrés doesn't answer; Martín thinks he might be expecting an explanation of that harsh judgment, but he won’t give it to him. In the silence that follows, he regrets having vented and swears he’ll never to let jealousy overpower him again. He can only bring up the first thing that comes to his mind.  
-What do we do now?  
-We go to Denmark, like we decided.  
-Yeah, but then what? What about our next heist?  
-You're already thinking about it? – Andrés grins like he’s already forgotten the previous topic, to Martín's delight. – Let's just enjoy the fruits of our labour for now.  
Martín nods and zips up his duffel bag as a thought makes its way into his mind. – You told me about the Bank of Spain, once.  
He watches Andrés laugh, throwing his head backwards, and it’s like getting struck by lightning; it happens every time, he knows he’ll never get used to it and he has come to terms with that too.  
-Right, – Andrés replies, - that would be my dream. _The gold of the National Bank_ – He says it like it’s the name of an aria he usually listens to on vinyl, or of a rare collector's painting, and he has that spark in his eyes that never fails to hypnotize Martín and that long ago led him to decide to do everything in his power to never let it go out.  
That's why, as soon as Andrés gets serious again and shakes his head, as if he’s just returned to reality, Martín ends up saying: - It doesn't have to stay a dream.  
Andrés smiles bitterly and grabs another bag. – There are things in which not even I can believe.  
-No, wait – Martín walks around the table and stops next to him. – We just have to work on it. It's gonna take longer than any heist we've ever tried before, there will be more hostages to watch and more variables to consider... but I think we can do it.  
Andrés looks at him, puzzled. – Why do you suddenly care so much?  
-Because you care – He answers instinctively, and then hurries to add: - Besides, it's not like I hate the idea of getting back the gold you all so kindly stole from us.  
-Sure, now I get it – Andrés sneers and stares at him carefully. – And you'd be willing to try? Really?  
"I want you to be happy. No one deserves it more than you. And this is the only thing I can do. It will be my work of art, for you."  
Those words sound so good in his mind. Just not enough for him to say them out loud. – I'll make it possible – he just tells him. – I swear.  
Andrés lifts a corner of his mouth and puts his hand on his best friend's cheek; his face has softened to the point that Martín's legs shake, and he has to strengthen his grip on the edge of the table for fear they won't hold him.  
-I know you will.  
The words fight, wriggle, _yearn_. Martín holds them down.  
  
  
  
V.  
  
  
-Are you sure you want a divorce? Again?  
-I've been thinking about it for a while, yeah.  
-I like Tatiana – admits Martín sincerely.  
-I know – Andrés sighs and sprawls on the couch. – But it won’t work.  
-Mm-mm. Let me guess – Martín’s voice is filled with false nonchalance – Your characters are incompatible?  
-I’d say our futures are.  
Martín takes the hit silently. Since Andrés told him about his illness it's like the myopathy hovers in their speeches, an intangible but still heavy presence; to tell you the truth, Andrés often brings it up, even in the least appropriate moments. He probably does it to exorcise it, according to Sergio. On the other hand, Martín always tries to avoid it like it’s a beast that mustn’t be teased; he’s terrified of getting too close to it, but there are days when he just can't pretend it’s not _there_ , and today is one of those days.  
-You said she knew about the disease, and it didn't bother her...  
-It was true. But sooner or later she'll realize what she’ll have to give up on. I’ll just spare her the effort. And the time.  
Martín nods and leans against the window sill, facing Andrés. – So I guess we're leaving?  
-Why should we?  
-It’s what we usually do when you get divorced.  
He's afraid of the moment when Andrés will ask him the fateful question: " _How is it possible that you've never thought of stopping somewhere forever? You know you don't have to follow me, right? Don't worry about me, stay if you want. It's not fair that you adapt to all my whims_."  
Andrés crosses his arms behind his head, absorbed, and stares at the ceiling. - Do you like it here?  
"I like it anywhere as long as you’re there too"  
-Yes – he answers. – Yes, I do.  
Andrés moves his foot up and down fast and bites his lower lip. – I think we should stay – he decrees eventually. – After all, we'll leave anyway once the plan is complete. We might as well file the last details here.  
-Oh.  
-Unless you want a change of scene, of course – His tone suggests he knows perfectly well that Martín wants what he wants, and even if he didn't he would adapt and follow him to the ends of the earth.  
-It’s fine by me – Martín answers immediately. – I like this life. Everything’s perfect.  
He lowers his eyes to escape Andrés’ and calls himself an idiot. "Congratulations, dickhead. Give him another reason to think you want to be with him and only him. Why don’t you go ahead and tell him the truth, since you’re almost there?"  
Right... Why doesn’t he tell him the truth?  
-I like this life too – Andrés says it quietly, it’s just a whisper, but Martín hears it.  
-What?  
-Nothing.  
Martín looks at him suddenly agitated, and Andrés takes the opportunity to chain his eyes to his own.  
-What were _you_ saying? – he asks Martín.  
-Nothing.  
"Coward"  
-Are you sure?  
"No."  
-Yep.  
  
  
  
+1  
  
  
-Don't wait for me tonight, I'm going out with Tatiana.  
-Okay.  
-I'll tell her at dinner.  
-…You’re going to tell her you want a divorce over a _ribollita_?  
-At least she'll take some comfort in it.  
Martín laughs and shakes his head, focusing on his papers again.  
-Sergio says you’re distracted – Andrés says it just like this, while he fixes his suit.  
-What do you mean?  
-He says you're not providing enough brains.  
Martín looks at him; his first instinct is to get angry, but he holds on. – And if Sergio says it I guess it must be true, right?  
Andrés puts his hands in his pockets; he stands in the middle of the room, his head slightly tilted to one side, and looks at him as if he already knows what he’s thinking. Martín sighs and rests his back on the chair, resigned. – What?  
-I thought we told each other everything, you and I.  
-We do. So?  
-So it's time for you to spit it out.  
At those words, Martín's heart leaps down his throat and his stomach tightens. It's been almost thirteen years, and even though he knew that sooner or later this moment would come, he never prepared a speech or an excuse to get out of the situation. The only thing he can do is deny.  
-No, - he replies with a smile, - I don't think so – He goes back to write numbers down, praying to whatever god or saint for something to happen, whatever miracle could make Andrés decide to drop the subject.  
-Martín, - Andrés's tone admits no repetitions, no matter how soft he tries to make it. – It's been years. Aren't you tired?  
"You have no idea" He wants to say it out loud but he doesn't, because he's not ready for Andrés to reject him, and he can't even refuse to talk about it because he knows it's a losing battle; everything is a losing battle, with Andrés. He'll end up giving him exactly what he wants, as he always does and he knows for sure that it won’t end well. he knows it will not end well; he can only suffer and wait.  
Andrés looks up at the ceiling and takes some time to choose the right words. - I've noticed something over the years – he starts. – I’m not totally blind, and even though you’re a master at hiding how you feel, you're an open book to me... But I didn't think what you felt was so strong. Or maybe I didn't want to see it. When I infiltrated the bank a few days ago and we went for a cocktail, my brother opened my eyes and I thought, “Damn, Sergio noticed it despite being completely inexperienced in sentimental matters and having the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon when it comes to other people's feelings... If even _he_ noticed it, it must be bigger than I think”.  
Martín's heart goes from racing like a train to beating regularly, and it sinks with every word he hears. He doesn't even try to hide the pain anymore. He suddenly stops writing, abruptly places the pencil on the table and looks at him. – What do you want from me?  
-For you to tell me. You'd feel better.  
Martín bursts into a bitter laughter and gets up, tidying up the notebooks on each other. – Thank you for your kindness, but I beg to differ.  
-Martín, listen...  
-Don’t. You don't have to explain anything to me. I understand, it's okay...  
-No, it's not okay. You think I don't feel it too?  
-I think you... What?  
-You don't think I feel what's between us? It's impossible to ignore it. It's something... extraordinary, unique. Wonderful. And I know about love, I've been married five times. The thing is... I've never felt anything remotely similar to what I feel with you with any of them. Never.  
Martín drops his notebooks on the table and stares at him agape, frowning. He desperately searches for something in the other's voice that could suggest he’s lying, or that maybe he has misunderstood, because he refuses to believe that Andrés returns his feelings him – that he has _always_ reciprocated him.  
Meanwhile, Andrés stops smiling; he is deadly serious as he continues: - It’s like you’re a mirror, a reflection of myself... Because you’re the same as me. And even where you’re different, you complete me. You know my thoughts before I have the chance to express them, and you _feel_ me. You're my soul mate, my other half. Nothing and no one will ever compare to you.  
Martín swallows and walks around the desk, his hands on his hips: nothing stands between the two, except the distance they have put.  
Andrés' gaze becomes melancholy, more uncertain. – But I don't think that's enough.  
"How can it not be enough?" Martìn rubs a hand on his face and before he does the time to ask that, Andrés continues.  
-We’re making a mistake and you know it.  
-What are you talking about?  
-The plan. Maybe Sergio's right, it’s too dangerous.  
Martín convinces himself it's all a malicious twist of fate: of all the turns he thought the conversation could take, this is the one he hadn't imagined. – Listen to me, - he slurs, - this has nothing to do with the two of us, okay? It's the heist of the century, we've been working on it for years...  
-I'm not saying we put it aside forever, I'm just saying we could use a break.  
-From what, robberies? – Martìn snaps dryly, because he knows Andrés isn’t talking about that, but he wants him to say it explicitly, fast and painless.  
-I mean from each other.  
No, it's not painless at all. Martín lets out a flickering sigh and leans back to rest his hands on the desk. Neither of them does anything for a while, and Martín ends up processing everything at once in the oppressive silence: his eyes fill with tears, he is literally breaking in half, but at least he’s no longer afraid. Every defence has collapsed, there's no point in fighting anymore. As he predicted, Andrés always gets what he wants, and all he has to do is surrender: - As you wish.  
Andrés looks down; if he didn't know him well, Martín would think he feels so guilty he’s ashamed and he’d feel pleased about it, but now he's too upset to worry about it. – You're a piece of shit – he tells him as tears stream. – Look what you've done to me.  
At those words, Andrés struggles to get his eyes back on him; he sighs and reaches out his hand to touch his cheek, but Martín withdraws abruptly like he might get burned, which is something he had never thought of doing in response of such a gesture from the other. – I don't want your pity.  
Andrés lowers his hand and steps back.  
-I'm sorry – he murmurs.  
Martín dries his face. – I love you – he admits. It’s not even remotely liberating as he imagined it to be because the circumstances are wrong and everything’s sad, and hopeless. – But I understand you don't care.  
Andrés opens his mouth to reply, but he won't let him: - I mean it. You don't need to excuse yourself. It was you who told me, remember? _Feelings and personal matters don’t come before work, never._ It's been years, but I've never forgotten those words.  
Andrés shuts his eyes slowly like he’s reliving the moment and when he opens them again they’re wet, but Martín won’t hope he’ll change his mind anymore. He can't even look at him, he lacks air. – Get out – It's the only thing he can say.  
Andrés waits for a few seconds, thinking he misunderstood, and Martín holds his gaze firmly the whole time. This time it's Andrés who gives in: he puts his coat and hat on and then turns to look at his friend: - Will you be here, when I come back?  
-No.  
Andrés tightens his lips, nods imperceptibly and leaves.  
  
  
  
3 WEEKS LATER  
  
  
-Hi.  
Martín stands still on the door, his eyes wide open. That damn smile makes him feel exactly the same as thirteen years earlier; he tightens his grip on the door handle, but his body refuses to do what his brain dictates – slam the door in his face, since that's what he deserves.  
-Aren’t you going to let me in?  
Martín sighs, trying to calm his nerves, and moves to the side. Andrés enters with his hands in his pockets and walks around the room, inspecting the bare walls and free surfaces. It looks like a motel room, so impersonal and empty.  
-You've been hiding well – he remarks, after a while. – You can't imagine how I had to struggle to get Santiago** to tell me where you were.  
-And I’m sure you tricked him out of it – Martín guesses scornfully.  
Andrés keeps looking around. – You left all your things at the monastery. Why?  
-I'll buy new ones – he answers while leaning his back against the door, arms crossed in front of him.  
-And why Palermo?  
-Why do you care? – he almost snaps. – What about you? I thought you and your brother wanted to get into the Mint. Why didn’t you two retreat to plan?  
-Touché – Andrés giggles and turns towards him. – Unfortunately, I'm not functioning as well as I'd like.  
-What's that supposed to mean?  
-I'm missing something.  
Martin doesn't know what to say. – What are you doing here?  
Andrés takes a couple of steps toward him. – Why didn't you tell me before? – he asks.  
-Would it have changed anything?  
-No, not before.  
"What about now?" Martín would like to ask. "Does it change anything now?"  
He doesn't know whether to throw him out or take him in his arms – because he misses him even now that he’s in front of him once again – and he ends up doing neither. He just looks at Andrés like he’s challenging him.  
-I'm not going to the Mint – he resumes.  
Martín frowns. – And what did Sergio say?  
-Actually, he gave in pretty quickly – He takes another step forward. – I think he couldn't stand me anymore.  
He’s not touching him yet but he’s dangerously close, and Martín doesn’t know how not to freak out anymore. – So you want to enter the Bank – he stammers.  
-You decide. It's not my priority right now. I'm not here for the job.  
-Why are you here, then?  
-Because I need you.  
Andrés puts his right hand between Martín's neck and shoulder and holds him still, making his head touch the door gently. The brown of his eyes meets the green of Martín's, which forces himself to breathe deeply but silently, trying not to let Andrés see him even more fragile than he already is. When Andrés bends forward, Martin raises a hand to stop him. – Didn't Sergio tell you to leave me? – he asks faintly.  
Andrés smiles softly; he moves away slightly and raises his left hand in front of the one Martín is holding up, rubbing their palms together slowly, from bottom to top, and eventually surrounds Martín's fingers with his own. He’s delicate, attentive, and he never takes his eyes away from his for a moment.  
He lowers Martín's hand holding it tightly in his own, removing all obstacles between them, and only then he aswers: - Sergio doesn't tell me what to do.  
A second later his mouth collides with Martín's and the latter opens up for him, letting Andrés's tongue in. It's wet and hot, and Martín swears he no longer feels the earth under his feet; he's floating, his head is spinning. He frees his hand from Andrés’ and runs it through his hair, squeezing it between his fingers and ruffling it in all directions.  
Andrés maneuvers him as he wants, moving his face with a hand on his cheek while the other makes his way under his shirt; as soon as his fingers come into contact with his skin, Martín trembles and pants hard against his mouth. He’s burning up and freezing at the same time. He pulls him closer and Andrés complies, pushing him further against the door, as much as possible. Martín spreads his legs by reflex and Andrés slips in the middle. – Ah... – It's not clear which one of them made that sound, but from that moment on their moans blend. Andrés circles his hips, rubbing his erection with Martín’s, who answers by snapping forward; they have to break apart to catch their breath, yet staying in each other's personal space, breathing the same air. Martín gives in to the impulse to look down, because he can’t believe this is happening. And yet here it is. Right there. Andrés’ bulge, and it's pressing against his.  
He only gives himself a couple of seconds and then looks back at Andrés, which hasn't missed the movement of his eyes and leans over his mouth again; he takes his lower lip between his teeth and pulls slightly – it's an Andrés that Martín has never seen; he could only ever imagine him at night, when he was lying in bed alone or with someone else maybe, but it was always a version of him that he knew was reserved for women only, and the fact that he's touching _him_ like that is just too much –, and he lets it go before caressing it with his thumb.  
-Touch me – he whispers.  
Martín doesn't need to be told twice: he pulls his zipper down and releases his erection. It makes his mouth water: it's hot, swollen, and when he strokes it Andrés sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, quivering from head to toe. With his other hand, Martín unbuttons his shirt and teases his nipple, almost making him scream. – Martín – He breathes as he gently grabs his wrist.  
Martín stops his movements on Andrés's cock but doesn’t let go of it. – What?  
Andrés takes a deep breath and presses a kiss against his lips, lingering against him but without deepening it.  
-I don't want to come like this.  
The meaning of his words almost makes Martín’s legs give out, but before he dares to think about it he wants to be sure of what Andrés really wants.  
-And how do you want to come?  
Without taking his eyes off him, Andrés opens his trousers letting them slide down to his knees and brings two fingers in front of his mouth. Martín opens his eyes wide and gets his mouth on them in an instant, licking and wetting every inch of them. When Andrés brings them between his legs and the first finger crosses the ring of muscles, Martín slams his head back against the door and moans harder than he’s done until now; Andrés cups his head with the other hand and presses his face against his neck. Martín raises one leg to give him more space, wrapping it around Andrés's waist as he surrounds his ear with his lips and bites him it, sucks his earlobe and presses his tongue into it.  
Andrés moves his finger in a circles, slowly but steadly; after a few seconds, Martín pushes back against it and Andrés lets another one in.  
-Yes – Martín pants, pulling his mouth away from him. – More...  
Andrés starts moving his fingers together, inside and out; it’s messy and chaotic but also perfect, and he can’t understand how he’s so sure about what he’s doing, since this is the first time he's ever touched a man. He inserts a third one and pushes his fingers as deep as he can, looking for that sensitive point that would make Martín scream until the whole building hears them. He crooks his fingers a few times and there it is: Martín really screams, and Andrés feels more powerful than he's ever felt with anyone before. He wonders how will he ever be able to stop, now that he knows this, and he wants _everything_.  
As much as he loves Martín's cries, he gives in to his desire to kiss him again and slips his tongue in his mouth; it goes on for a while, until Martín pulls him away by his hair and looks him straight in the eyes.  
-I want you.  
That was all Andrés was waiting for; he removes his fingers and lifts Martín up against the door, spreading his buttocks as the other wraps his legs around his waist and brings Andrés' tip towards his opening. When he presses it inside he feels a burning sensation, probably because of the position which doesn’t really allow them to take the right time and space, but thirteen years are long and he’s not going to ask Andrés to stop just so they can move to the bedroom. They will have time for that. “God, we will have _time_ ” he thinks with disbelief.  
-Are you all right? – Andrés asks.  
-Don't stop – he answers right away. – Don't stop...  
Andrés doesn't, and keeps pushing in slowly until he’s pressed all the way inside, his eyes closed and eyebrows frowned at the effort; Martín feels so full he could explode, and focuses on Andrés's tense face. He rubs his nose against his and it makes Andrés open his eyes.  
-You're so tight – he murmurs.  
Martín feels like he’s getting even harder, but he doubts it's possible. – Fuck me – he encourages him.  
Andrés satisfies him: he starts by coming out slowly and thrusting back into that heat all at once. As he increases the speed, Martín sincerely feels guilty if he thinks about the married couple with children that live right below him, but he just can’t _not_ shout: this is all he’s ever wanted and even better, and as much as fantasy helped him on his loneliest nights, reality is undoubtedly superior.  
Andrés hits the right spot with almost every thrust as he squeezes Martín’s thighs hard, determined to leave marks, and fucks him hard and deep; Martín has one arm around his shoulders and one hand on his hair. – Yes – he shouts – Oh God, yes...  
He doesn't dare look at his dick, but he guess it’s turned purple by now. The heat in his lower abdomen intensifies and hits him like a wave: he squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a choked moan, while a hot liquid spurts and stains Andrés' belly – maybe even part of his shirt, but he has no doubt he will complain about it later – and the other comes inside him after a few thrusts, growling in his ear like an animal.  
Once their bodies relax completely, Andrés lets Martín stand on his feet and look at him; his eyes are filled with so many questions – too many – and he decides to silence all his doubts once and for all.  
-I do too, by the way – he tells him as he caresses his cheek with his thumb.  
-Do what?  
-Love you.  
Martín giggles, moving a lock of dark brown hair from Andrés’ forehead. – Like you used to love Tatiana, Carmen, etcetera?  
Andrés rolls his eyes but smiles. – Don't even think about it – he argues. – I told you, this is different – He takes his hand like he did before – Everything is different.  
-Better?  
Andrés kisses his knuckles one by one.  
-Much better.

**Author's Note:**

> * Marseille  
> ** Botogà
> 
> Fun fact: at first, this was supposed to be a song-fic based on Your Song by Elton John – and I think you’ll notice this if you know the lyrics, especially in the first half of the fic– but I changed my mind while writing and left it on the top of the text.  
> I got the title from Mirrors by Justin Timberlake.  
> That being said, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Bye guys ^^


End file.
